


Sincerely, Me

by midnightwaterlily33



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Anorexia, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Crossdressing, Depression, Family Issues, Gay Keith (Voltron), Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith and Shiro are Adoptive Siblings, Lance (Voltron) Has ADHD, Letters, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Pen Pals, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Shiro (Voltron), Slow Burn, Some Humor, Strangers to Lovers, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Therapist Allura, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2018-12-24 14:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12015099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightwaterlily33/pseuds/midnightwaterlily33
Summary: Allura considers herself a "creative therapist," but her patients, Lance and Keith both consider her to be a weird New Age hippie when she assigns them to a new project that involves writing to anonymous mental health "pen-pals" to help them both express themselves more. Neither Keith nor Lance would subscribe to the label of "crazy" and they definitely do not need help, especially not from a stranger. Are they strangers?Lance and Keith are unknowingly paired in this implementation of this rant therapy. For 20 weeks, they've been instructed to write letters back and forth at least twice per week. It doesn't take long for L.M. and K.K. to become sort-of friends and for suspicions to arise surrounding the identities of their secret pen-pals.





	1. Letter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there ^_^
> 
> So this is my second ever Voltron fic, with my first being a drabble that I did as a gift. So I'm considering this my first full-fledged Voltron fic. And I am actually very nervous! So please bear with me. This is adapted from a story I tried to write with original characters long ago, but it just wasn't working, so I decided to try it as a fanfic. This is a highschool AU, so if that doesn't float your boat, that's okay. 
> 
> A few other things I want to say before this begins:
> 
> 1\. Read the warnings that will be posted in the notes at the beginning of each chapter. Nothing will be particularly graphic, but as the tags suggest, this story will deal with some pretty heavy themes and topics. Please read the warnings and tags, and don't read it if you think it's going to be triggering for you. 
> 
> 2\. This fic is sort of different in terms of formatting. Every chapter includes a fair portion of the story told in the format of letters from Keith to Lance and vice versa. There's also some parts told through text conversations. 
> 
> 3\. Also yes, the title is definitely also a song from Dear Evan Hansen and I just couldn't think of anything good and that came to mind first. The two are not related at all. Title is definitely subject to change.
> 
> That should be about all. Sorry for this very long author's note.

K.K.

The address on the paper Keith has in his hands is blacked out, completely indecipherable.  It’s supposed to prevent him and his new apparent mental health pen-pal from finding out each other’s identities, and for “safety,” which is hilarious considering writing down all of his personal thoughts and struggles for some stranger to read is probably the least safe thing Keith can think of.

Initials L.M.

Apparently he or she’s Keith’s newest best friend for the next 20 weeks, and he knows nothing of them. Not a damn thing. For all he knows, the therapists could be playing a sick game and this person, L.M. is a seventy year old truck driver.  

Okay, well that’s not completely true. Allura did tell Keith that she’s certain this person is another teenager his age.

Keith doesn’t trust Allura as far as he could throw her, and that wouldn’t be very far considering she’s almost six feet tall, which honestly, has always freaked him out a little. Why she decided to become a therapist and not, say, an NBA player, he’ll never know. But Keith has to pretend to trust Allura, at least on the surface, for Shiro’s sake. Shiro finally convinced Keith to go back to therapy and it wasn’t easy; Keith knows he put up more of a fuss than Shiro deserved and the look on Shiro’s face was one of pure relief once Keith conceded.

That look was a million times better than the completely devastated one he’d seen a few weeks back when Shiro found him. He’ll do anything not to have to see that again.

Perhaps he wishes Allura didn’t have to be such a hipster fuck about it though. “Creative therapy,” she called it. His assignment: 20 weeks of letters back and forth between himself and this person, L.M. “Self-expression without judgement” is another phrase tossed around.

 Basically, from what Keith can gather, he and this person just spill their intimate secrets to each other and whine about their problems twice a week, and afterward they’re both supposed to feel better.

Allura assures that it shouldn’t feel awkward or scary, because both sides are sworn to stay anonymous. She says knowing anything of each other is supposed to keep judgment and stereotypes out of the way, and offer a safe ear to listen. “Supposed to” is the key term Keith keeps in mind.

He takes a seat down in the waiting room outside of Allura’s office while he waits for Shiro to come pick him up, with a sheet of obnoxiously decorated stationary and a pen. He thinks about how the hell he’s supposed to craft his introductory letter to a stranger.

_Dear L.M._

_Hey, K.K. here, your apparent companion for the next 20 weeks. Um, how’s it going, I guess?_

_I have no idea where to begin. Or how this is going to go, or why Allura thinks two crazy people writing letters specifically to just scream about our problems is a good idea. Sounds like it’s going to be all sunshine and rainbows, hm?_

_Don’t get me wrong. I’m going to try to take this seriously. It will be the first time I’ll take any treatment with any ounce of seriousness. I’m doing it for my brother. I guess I can’t tell you his name in case you know him and figure out who I am._

_I’ll just get the awkward part over with and spare you the pleasantries._

_My name’s K.K. (or, well those are my initials obviously). I guess I’ll just say that I’m 18, a junior in high school—I got held back. I’m really fucking depressed, and a few weeks ago I tried, and clearly failed, to kill myself. Fast forward to now, and Allura has given me this assignment. So here we are. If I sound like I am not enthused, I promise it’s not you. I just don’t like that I have to do this at all. I kind of think Allura is some kind of hipster, New Age shit for suggesting it, but I guess I’ll try anything once._

_What else? I live with my adoptive brother, and he pretty much takes care of me, since all that shit went down. I kind of hate it. It makes me feel guilty, and also like I’m five years old. But that’s a story for later. Our parents—as well as my birth parents, but I hardly knew them—are dead, so it’s just me and him._

_I guess feel free to tell me about yourself now. Or don’t, I don’t know._

_Sincerely,_

_K.K._

L.M.

The only thing in the mailbox is a letter for Lance that he knew all too well was coming. Suddenly angry, he shoves it back in the box and slams the front gate.

Every day he goes through the motions. Walk to school, sleep through classes, pretend to socialize, pick up his niece and nephew, walk home, do homework, survive the night, and go to sleep. But today, when he steps onto the patio, his niece Martha’s on his heels and pestering him about the stupid letter. He guesses his mom told her about it, and he has no idea why, because as if a five-year-old needs to know, or even cares, about the therapy her fucked up uncle is going through.

“You’re supposed to get your first letter from that pen-pal thingy today, right?”

Lance frowns. “Why do you care?”

“Did ya get it yet?”

“That’s none of your business, Guadalupe.”

She nearly shrieks at that. “I _told_ you call me Martha! Stupid Lance!”

“Martha’s not your name,” he reminds her just for the sake of being antagonizing. “Guadalupe is.”

“Martha’s my middle name! Mommy said I could use it, and so did Abuela! So stop.”

“Then leave me alone and stop sticking your nose in my business.”

“Lance, here! Look!” he turns his back as he was about to open the door to find Mateo running toward him with the letter in his hands and Lance wishes he could toss the kid out of the house.  “You forgot this, it was in the mailbox for you.”

Lance snatches it out of the little boy’s hands and sighs. “Yeah, I left it there for a reason. Did you know that taking someone else’s mail can be a federal crime? You could go to _prison.”_ He knows this is technically a lie, since Mateo didn’t actually open it, but what better does a seven year old know. 

“What?!” he screams. “No way!”

“Yes way. Do it again and I’ll call the FBI on you. Go inside.”

He shoos Martha and Mateo into the house and hears the telltale signs of them rifling through the kitchen cupboards for snacks and turning on the TV. He’s sure there will be a mess for him to clean up when he goes inside, even if he only leaves them for five minutes. He moves to the other side of the porch, falls into one of the plastic chairs, kicks a few beer bottles away—stupid Paolo—and rests his feet up on the table as tears open the envelope.

~ ~ ~

_Dear K.K._

_Hey there, K.K. I’ll start off by answering you… Everything is pretty shit-tastic, thanks for asking._

_I also will start off by saying, how often do people make jokes about how close you were to ending up with the most unfortunate initials in the world? I hope to god your middle name doesn’t start with a K, does it? (Okay, sorry, moving on. I couldn’t resist pointing that one out)._

_You say we’re crazy people, huh? I don’t know, you might have to speak for yourself. And excuse you, I am absolutely filled with sunshine and rainbows._

_For everyone’s benefit, I’m not going to be dishonest with you. So I can’t really promise any kind of serious attitude, but I’ll take it all at face value and do as I see fit. Fair?_

_Guess I will tell you about myself. I’m 17. I’m a senior. I’ve got mad ADHD. I live with my mom and my dad, but he’s hardly home because he’s away for work. My mom’s a nurse. She works long shifts at the hospital so she’s not around super often either. My older sister lives in our house part time too, and we (mostly me) take care of her 2 kids a lot. The only real complaint I can give is that it’s fucking stressful sometimes because I have to balance doing 80 pounds of homework to stay on the honor roll and taking care of two primary school kids._

_Other than that stuff, I can really only tell you what the shrinks have told me. “I have misplaced pain and no healthy outlets for the negative emotions, hence preventing me from solving my problems, and instead creating more.” That’s the exact quote from the forms about my case at the mental health center. I stole them from Allura’s desk once. And yes, I do think she’s a New Age hippie. I kind of like her though. She seems like she’s badass outside of her life as a therapist._

_And I feel you there on the whole sentiment of not wanting to fucking do this. I never said I wanted help. But, I’m being forced to do this. Since you told me, I’ll tell you I’m doing this for my mama. She didn’t exactly force me herself, but she’s the reason behind it all._

_Kinda seems like you’ve got a lot more on your plate, I mean, no offense or anything, but trying to kill yourself is a pretty serious thing to do. I haven’t done anything like that. Maybe you could do me a favor and like, I don’t know, not off yourself anytime soon? I’d like it if my pen-pal didn’t suddenly die on top of everything else going on._

_-L.M._

_P.S. Are you a girl?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! So a very short first chapter is done! This is basically just a small introduction to each of them honestly, and there should be more next time. I'm still figuring out exactly how I want to format and plan the chapters too, so please bear with me!
> 
> It is also 4 AM, so I hope there aren't any hideous errors. Feel free to point any out. 
> 
> I would love and appreciate any comments anyone has! Thanks for reading ^_^


	2. God Help Lance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. 
> 
> Just a disclaimer: I'm definitely am going to shamelessly insert the other characters from Voltron as side characters throughout this. Just FYI. Sorry if that’s annoying.
> 
> Warnings this chapter: Allusions to suicide, some unhealthy eating behaviors, language (this is an always thing)

L.M.

Lance scribbles a jagged line across his half-completed homework when his desk is literally shaken by the hands of a damn seven-year-old. Mateo is leaning against the wood surface, cheeks squished against the side. “Lance, I’m hungry. When d’you think Mommy’s coming?”

“I don’t know, bud,” he replies, tries to erase, but he’s tugging on Lance’s sleeve now.

“Well I’m hungry. So’s Martha.”

Lance drags a hand down his face, sighing into it. He doesn’t have time for this. And where the hell is Selena? She said this morning that she was working tonight, but that she’d be done and back by six to take her own kids home for once. And frankly, Lance is _tired._ He’s tired of taking care of kids that aren’t his every night this week, and his Calculus and AP History homework is piling up because he’s been busy feeding and bathing and doing homework with two first graders.

“Okay,” he breathes, trying not to let his anger come out and get taken out on them. “It looks like it might be a while ‘til she’s here. I’ll make you guys something.”

“Okay!” Mateo says, bouncing happily, likely because he knows he’s about to get to eat some sort of junk food for dinner because that’s all Lance has the patience for is some frozen pizza. He’s not getting paid to be a cook. Well, he’s not getting paid, period. “But also, don’t forget, Martha’s a vegetarian now.”

“Sorry, _what?_ ”

~ ~ ~

He’s slightly startled a few hours later when his bedroom door opens, without a knock, as usual. He keeps scrawling out equations as he feels his mother’s hands on his shoulder, warm and familiar and then she’s looking over his shoulder at his open Calculus book. “Lance… dios mío, why are you awake? Is… are you still doing homework?”

Lance gives a nod, and though he doesn’t smile or lift his head, he murmurs softly, “Welcome home, Mama.”

He sees his mother turn her attention then, to his bed, where Martha and Mateo are curled up beside each other, asleep in two of Lance’s t-shirts. The expression that washes over her face makes her look even older, even more tired, and Lance didn’t think that was possible at this point.

“Selena never came to pick them up. I made dinner. They’ve both had baths. But I couldn’t get Mateo to do his homework.” He admits somewhat miserably. “Kid’s probably got ADHD like me; I swear Selena needs to take him to see someone.”

His mother ponders this. “Maybe I can make him an appointment next week,” she says slowly.

“It’s not your responsibility, Mama.”

“It’s not yours either, darling.” She leans down and gives a kiss to the side of his head. “I have tomorrow and the next day off, so you won’t have to do it again.”

“Right,” he says, ignoring the fact that at the back of his mind are all the times his mom’s taken up extra shifts on her nights off. He tries not to resent her every time, especially when he sees how the food in the fridge disappears at the speed of light, when it’s meant for only her and Lance and occasionally Selena. But instead it’s him and his mom and Selena, _and_ Martha _and_ Mateo _and_ Selena’s worthless baby-daddy Paolo, and his grandmother on good days, and sometimes Mr. Marcos from down the street… and, and, and.

Everything comes with an “and.” More and more every day until it piles up and topples over.

 

K.K.

The peculiar thing is, that even when your life is falling apart, it keeps going. That’s the good, and also the horrible part about coming back from what was supposed to be your death. Your life is just like, _there_ waiting for you. And it’s sort of refreshing, at least the good parts are, like Shiro, or like the feeling of being in his own bed. But it also feels so pressing and heavy. And just because someone had dragged Keith back to his life, tried to right him and fix him up, it doesn’t mean he still wants to live it.

He wakes up on Wednesday morning, two days after sending his first letter from Allura’s office. This will be his third day back at school since getting out of the hospital and even though he feels like there’s a weight sitting on his chest that’s heavier than he is, his alarm rings. And when he shuts it off and drifts apathetically back into sleep, Shiro opens his bedroom door and comes to shake him awake.

 _I’m just going to drop out, okay?_ He imagines himself saying to Shiro, but keeps his mouth shut and stares up at him listlessly. Shiro is saying something to him, and somehow Keith is watching his mouth move but hears nothing.

“Hey, Keith!”

“What?”

“Are you okay? You… sort of just checked out for a minute there. Were you having a night terror?”

 _Night terror?_ Keith hasn’t had them since he was eleven. Well, with the exception of the week everything went to shit. He’d had one the night before he did it, and then a couple more in the hospital. But once he was on a stable dosage of medications, they stopped again, and the psychiatrist seemed pretty positive they wouldn’t return.

“No, I’m fine,” he murmurs.

“Positive?” Shiro says with a raise of his brows that makes Keith want to cringe. 

“Yes, Shiro, I’m just tired.”

 

Keith avoids the food that’s already been laid out for him on the table when he makes it downstairs. He takes a seat and stares at it for a little bit, waiting for Shiro to join him and pester him about it, but instead he hears shuffling down the hall inside of Shiro’s “office,” or whatever you want to call it. Really, it’s a room that’s just filled to the brim with fabrics, thread, sequins, and oh god, glitter—because Shiro loves glitter. Really, it’s everything he could possibly need to run a small fashion designing business from home.

Keith sips at the glass of juice in front of him until it’s almost empty, and takes one experimental bite of oatmeal and immediately regrets it as it slides down like cement. He doesn’t even like oatmeal as is. He dumps the dishes in the sink.

He wanders down the hallway to stop and hang off the doorframe of the room as he watches Shiro rummaging around for something. He can’t even see over the pile of fabrics on the table by the door. He’s tried to ask Shiro how the hell he finds anything in here and tried to organize some things once, but Shiro freaked out and told him not to move things because he has a _method._

Keith spots something on the stand in the corner of the room though, and gestures toward a pair of sparkly black and red shoes.

“Hey, could I wear those?”

“Huh?” Shiro looks up, bewildered, and follows Keith’s gesture to look at the shoes and his face falls for just a moment, before he goes to pick them up.

“They’re new,” Keith points out.

“Yeah, I uh, made them on Monday. The laces are satin though, which in retrospect wasn’t the best call. They’ll probably come untied on you constantly. Might be too annoying.”

Keith laughs, but does so in effort to cover up the anxiety that’s blooming in his chest. “I sit in a chair like 89% percent of my day anyway, Shiro.” Shiro has never shown any reluctance to let Keith be his guinea pig to try on his new things.

 It’s actually sort of their pastime; Shiro makes all of his prototypes in Keith’s size and Keith wears them for a test drive. And if Shiro’s unlucky enough that Keith likes them, he won’t give them back. And then Shiro has to make another one, but then he knows it’s good to send the design off to be produced. So far the Keith-approved process has been foolproof.

But Shiro chuckles good-naturedly like that moment of uncertainty didn’t happen and hands the shoes to Keith. He likes them more up close, the sequined pattern reminds him of swirling paint, and the laces _are_ black satin. Shiro laughs again and says, “Uh, definitely make sure you have other shoes to wear for P.E. today then. The sporty look is all an illusion.”

Another answer Keith has to bite back before he ruins his brother’s day _. Oh, Shiro, I haven’t participated in a P.E. class since I was twelve._ Keith tries to keep a straight face as he heads back down the hall.

“Oh! Keith, before you go.” Shiro taps his shoulder with the corner of a crisp white envelope. “This came for you today.”

 

Keith reads the letter on the bus ride to school. As usual, freshmen from the back of the bus toss paperclips and balled up papers at the back of his head—that’s what he gets for being the only kid over 16 on the bus. The same girl who always gets on at the stop after Keith’s sits in the seat across from his, like she always does, and she doesn’t give him a second glance. And he begins to wonder if the world ever really shifts at the absence of another person.

None of these people noticed he was gone, and they probably never will. And it’s not that Keith particularly cares, but he finds it to be a great fat contradiction to the “you matter” bullshit that was crammed down his throat every two minutes at the hospital.

~ ~ ~

_Dear L.M._

_It’s good to, sort of meet you I guess._

_And yes, I get that joke a lot, thanks for that. My middle name starts with A, so don’t worry._

_Wow, I really can’t imagine what it must be like to have a big family like that. It’s pretty much always been just me and my brother, since I was 13._

_I’m not going to make comments on your whole mental health situation because that would be hypocritical of me and I also know pretty much nothing about ADHD._

_So, Allura says that now that we “know” each other, we’re supposed to talk about how our weeks/lives are going, so I guess here goes._

_It’s Wednesday today, so my week is half over. So far this week, I’ve had my appointment with Allura, I’ve gone to school, and I’ve not really done anything else. Today’s my third day back since, well everything.  I fucking hate school. I’m honestly impressed you say you’re on the honor roll. I used to be, back when I was in middle school. My brother was the valedictorian of his class, so I’m a pretty sore disappointment to him, I’m sure. He’s always bugging me to study harder because I have “a lot of potential.” But actually, he’s sort of let up on that a lot lately. Gee, I wonder why._

_Don’t worry, I think it would be pretty pathetic of me to try for a suicide round two after just three weeks. I’ve got more willpower than that I think._

_Sincerely,_

_K.K._

_P.S. No, I am not a girl. Why was that your first assumption? Are you a girl?? _

“Keith, are you with us?” He’s torn away from writing just as he finishes the last line, by Mr. Coran trying to call him out again. He lowers his eyes at Keith and gestures to the board, scrawled in equations and diagrams. “Perhaps you know the answer to our trajectory equation up here? How many meters from the target will it land?”

Keith scans the equations. “3.4, Sir.”

He can see the way Mr. Coran struggles not to let his jaw drop. “3.4 short of or past the target?”

“Short of the target.”

“Hm, I can see you’ve grasped the concept of the equation. But that doesn’t earn you a get out of jail free card. Put the book away.”

Keith closes his journal with a resounding thump and shoves it into his bag. He was finished anyway. Thank god, because now the stupid letter is done and out of the way, and this will be the second one this week already, so he’s in the clear. He’s done what Shiro and Allura want him to and now he’s off the hook.

The back of his chair is kicked roughly. “Who you writing love letters to, faggot?” a voice snickers behind him. Keith scoots his chair away and ignores it.

L.M.

Lance is _way_ too tired for this shit. He knows this and at this point there is no other explaination other than that the universe hates him because from the moment he woke up this morning—on the couch in his own house, that is –it was like the world was against him. No more than usual, he supposes, but when he left the house this morning his car was _missing_ from the driveway, and that was the particularly catastrophic event that set everything off.

Apparently, Paolo has claim on _Lance’s_ personal property now. Well, okay, so his mother paid for half of it. But that still made his shitty Subaru property of the _McClain_ family, which Paolo was _not._ His mom tried to placate him heavily, with a weary look of guilt on her face and claimed that she’d find a way to get him to bring the car back before Lance got home from school. He hates that it’s another thing that’s unnecessarily become his mom’s responsibility, and it had taken everything in him not to ditch class and head over there to give that asshole a piece of his mind.

And his sister still hadn’t shown her face. Paolo claimed he’d been sent to fetch Mateo and Martha and apparently that meant he had the liberty to just _take_ Lance’s car to get them home. Meaning he’d literally taken the keys out of Lance’s backpack that he unfortunately left in the kitchen.

To say he’s been livid all morning is an understatement.

He’d been irritated when he walked in the doors, so much that he brushed off Hunk when he tried to ask him what was going on. If he wasn’t gunning so hard for a fucking scholarship so he could get the hell out of here, he’d have skipped his first class. But he made it five minutes into Calculus before he was called off to the counselor’s office for no apparent reason.

And now, the counselor, who Lance has actually never seen in his _life—_ because they don’t bother harping on kids who seem to have their lives together—is looking down at him with this gross, patronizing smile. The placard on his desk reads “Mr. Thace.”

He sighs and speaks to Lance measuredly. “Mr. McClain. First off, I want to tell you congratulations, as you are currently slotted for an excellent chance at salutatorian of your class; valedictorian if you can step it up a little. You’re an excellent student, which is why I’m a bit concerned, because you will not be able to graduate in the spring if you don’t have a physical education credit.”

Lance is completely taken aback. “Wait, what?” he sputters. “P.E.?”

“Yes, it appears you’re missing your credit in physical ed.”

“I was on the basketball team—varsity—until last year. I was told that counted.”

“Well, as of this year, the standards have changed, and students must take approved physical education curriculum. While that doesn’t technically apply to you…” He pauses, and takes in a measured breath, glaring at Lance suddenly. “I’ve been told that the nature of your dismissal from the team was… less than impressive.”

Lance fights to keep from scowling at him for bringing that up. This cannot be happening to him.

“So, if I’m not mistaken, you have a free period at 2PM Mondays and Wednesdays, do you not? There’s a P.E. class at that time as well, so I’m enrolling you in that period. I’m sorry to take that time away from you.”

Lance is instantly seized with panic. Yes, he has free period as his last class those days. And that’s because leaves early to go pick up Martha and Mateo. It’s been the routine for almost a year now.

But he can’t tell Mr. Thace that, can he? If he hadn’t been an overachiever and obtained the free period, he’d be obligated to be here until 3:30 like everyone else. That’s like, legal shit, right? Having obligations that prevent you from going to school?

“I… Uh….” Lance starts to say something automatically before he can think, but he’s cut off simultaneously by Mr. Thace starting to try saying something vague and placating, and also by a harsh knock on the door.

The office secretary pokes her head in the door before Mr. Thace can answer and she looks like she’s seen a damn ghost.

“Mr. Thace, I’m sorry. I have Keith outside again. For a dress code violation… again. And he’s a bit… upset.”

The look that falls across Mr. Thace’s face reminds Lance of his mother when Selena calls her for money, or when she’s just come home from a super stressful shift at work.

“Lance, I’m sorry, it seems…” he drops the sentence for no reason and runs a hand over his suddenly exhausted face. “I’ve enrolled you in the class. Just make sure you attend it starting Friday and as long as you pass, you’ll be all ready to graduate with honors. And keep gunning for one of those top spots, okay?”

With that, he’s practically shoved out of the room and the secretary ushers him out right as another student shoves past them. He’s a hair shorter than Lance, with shaggy black hair and Lance can’t get a great look at him, but he looks mad. Probably more angry than Lance had been this morning, even. The only thing lance notices is the way he clutches at what appears to be a long black skirt that he’s wearing, which has a pretty noticeable rip down its side. He assumes this guy must be Keith, and Keith looks ready to commit a murder. God help Mr. Thace.

God help Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was fuelled by a bottle of cheap merlot and my depression. I'm sorry for the parts where it's kinda weird. This is sort of a vent fic for me, but also not? 
> 
> Yeah, I don't have a lot else to say other than it's been a long goddamn time since I've been in high school, friends. 
> 
> Please excuse me while I descend into existential dread.


	3. The Rumor Mill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of death, allusions to unhealthy eating habits.

L.M.

When he returns to Calculus, Lance thinks about anything but math. Weirdly enough, amongst his seething over being forced into P.E. and his worry over how he’s gonna tell his mom that he can’t take Martha and Mateo anymore, he thinks about Keith from the counselor’s office. 

Seeing him jogged Lance’s memory a little; he does vaguely know Keith from seeing him in the halls and the cafeteria. The school has enough people in it that he’s never really thought about Keith unless something brings him up.  He and Lance don’t have any classes together. The only thing he  _ does  _ know about Keith is all of the things Keith is known _ as _ \--things from the rumor mill. 

He’s heard the things in the hall, and never really thought about them until now because he’s never really been face to face with Keith. There’s a decent amount of people in this school and Lance doesn’t exactly seek Keith out in a crowd. 

Keith, the resident cross-dresser. Lance knows this much, because it’s what people gossip about most often; how Keith is wearing a dress to school again. Lance doesn’t pay a lot of attention. He doesn’t give a damn what Keith wants to wear. 

He knows that there are a lot of rumors about Keith being gay. Or about him being transgender, but they’re all rumors, so who knows what’s true. Lance has always preferred to stay out of it. He’s not a gossiper. 

But looking back on it, that is  _ all  _ Lance knows about Keith. Technically, he and Lance have been going to school together since middle school, but Lance has always been popular, he supposes. He was an athlete, a family oriented person, and a top student. He and Keith didn’t share friend groups, hobbies, or classes. He remembers, vaguely, how the only thing he and Keith had in common was that for a brief moment--from around year seven to freshman year--he and Keith were neck and neck for the top slot on the honor roll. Lance  _ hated  _ that competition, but it was short-lived. After freshman year, Keith’s GPA must have taken a dive. Now, he and a girl named Christina--the head cheerleader and occasional acquaintance of Lance’s--seem to float back and forth at the top of the class and they’ve called a truce. Whoever doesn’t make the top spot will be Salutatorian and that’s good enough. 

Gosh though, he does feel kind of bad that he didn’t even recognize what Keith looks like today. It’s not like he ceased to exist… But he did, at least in Lance’s world. Because his world is centered around his grades, his family, and his friends, and Keith doesn’t play a part in any of those things. 

Something else he does remember, now that he thinks back on it, is that Keith used to get teased a lot when they were young. He turned around and solved every issue with his fists. It was like all he ever did was fight. Lance used to quietly worry about his wellbeing, but never had the guts to say anything to him, and Keith probably really wouldn’t have wanted him to. He supposes, it was right around freshman year, when Keith disappeared from the grade competition, that he also stopped hearing wind of Keith’s latest schoolyard scuffle. Lance was glad to see he learned to reign in the violence and stopped worrying about him then. 

He thinks of the massive tear in Keith’s clothes today, and wonders if the fighting ever really stopped, or if people just stopped gossiping about it. 

 

K.K.

Keith doodles a tiny jellyfish and a couple bubbles, a small coral reef and some fish down in the corner of his paper before he realizes it. He’s been staring down at his letter for the better part of an hour, debating if he said enough, or the right stuff. He wants Allura and Shiro off his back, and this letter assignment is the way to do that. 

He wrote it during second period, before his day was even beginning, really, so that means he left out the part where he  got in-school-suspension for throwing his history textbook at Rolo when he called Keith a faggot after PE. He left out the part where he argued with Shiro for an hour when he got home, about whether Keith had eaten his lunch. He left out the part where he ditched homeroom again to go sit on the bridge by the highway for an hour, and he definitely didn’t mention how long he really contemplated what it would feel like to just… fall over the edge. There’s no way the cars would be able to stop in time if he did. He hopes to himself, mostly, that he wasn’t lying in the part where he said he has enough willpower.

And he definitely left out the part where today, during English, Lotor grabbed his skirt from behind while he was minding his own damn business, and ripped it halfway to shreds. 

Then he raised his hand and announced to the entire class and Mrs. Riley that Keith was violating the dress code and he was making him  _ “uncomfortable.”  _

Lotor, that stupid, conniving little bitch. 

He shifts his attention away from the doodles that now sit below the last line of the letter and contemplates if he has to rewrite it now. No, he thinks, who cares if this literal stranger sees his stupid little doodles and thinks he’s foolish? 

He rereads that line though, and sort of hopes that L.M. is not a girl. Not that it would be a bad thing, but Keith doesn’t… get irls. He knows almost nothing about them, and, now that he’s thinking about it, he’s never really been close to anyone female, except maybe Shiro’s mom. Or Allura—but they’re not  _ close _ , she’s his  _ therapist. _ And a mother doesn’t really count. Besides, he only knew Mrs. Shirogane for three years before… everything. 

Thinking about her suddenly now, throws Keith’s mind for a loop that he didn’t want. He tries not to think about Shiro’s mom and dad as much as he can. He guesses that technically, they were his mom and dad too, but he never quite got to that point. It wasn’t until the month they both died that he remembers calling Mrs. Shirogane “Mom” for the first time. He remembers exactly when that was, because two weeks later, he got the phone call that they were gone. 

He’d had to call Shiro at college and tell him himself. When Shiro got home, it was the very first time Keith had ever seen his older brother cry, and Keith, though he feels selfish to admit it, was terrified. Late that night, Keith locked himself inside his room and crawled into the closet and only then, did he sob over them because he didn’t want Shiro to know. They were Shiro’s parents first. They were Shiro’s  _ real,  _ biological parents, and Shiro was more hurt than Keith had ever seen him. 

He tries not to think about them as much as he can, because he doesn’t want to be sad over them. He doesn’t think he has the right to be. 

Shiro seemingly picks the worst possible timing to come into Keith’s room and sneak up behind him. Keith didn’t see or hear him coming until Shiro’s actually committed the blasphemous act of pulling one of Keith’s earbuds out of his ears and says, “Boo.” 

“What the fuck, Shiro?” he growls.

Shiro laughs wholeheartedly and Keith grimaces up at him, but it ends up looking like more of a pout and Shiro only laughs more. 

“What do you want?” 

“It’s dinnertime.” 

“Oh,” Keith says, looking back down to his desk. “I’m not especially hungry.” 

“Okay, well it’s still dinnertime and you have to eat  _ something _ . Come on. I cooked.” 

“Cooked  _ what  _ specifically?” Keith says dubiously. 

“You’ll just have to find out,” Shiro says, tugging on the back of Keith’s hoodie. “C’mon. Your brother slaved over a hot stove.”

“You did  _ not.”  _

“I did! I cooked. For  _ you. … _ And for me. It took like, an entire hour.” 

Shiro’s being too nice to him, Keith notes, as he begrudgingly stands to follow him. Too happy. It’s overbearing, though not exactly forced. Keith knows. He  _ knows.  _ He wishes he didn’t, and he just wants to move past this already. 

“Also,” Shiro tells him. “If nothing else, I got you a chocolate shake.”

 

~

 

_ Dear K.K.  _

_ Well, good to meet you too, buddy :)    _

_ Yeah, my family has always been like that. It’s probably the calmest now as it’s ever been, honestly, since now all of my older siblings have pretty gotten their own independent lives, on some level. It’s cool you have an older brother. We have that in common--I’ve got two. And my older sister. So, like I said, big family. Is your older brother cool? I can’t imagine living with my brothers; it would be constant torture and humiliation. _

_ And it’s okay, the commentary is Allura’s job, right? It is what it is. I can’t really make any comments on your situation either, so we can just agree to listen, ok? And, really, I’m probably lucky because ADHD doesn’t exactly make me want to kill myself or anything. Sorry, that was insensitive as fuck, wasn’t it? I’m not the most tactful, I guess.(Like I said before, please don’t kill yourself). I’m better in person, really. Writing is sorta hard for me. Is it for you too? Or is it better for you when you’re writing letters like this? I know some people express better when they can think and write it out. I am not one of those people, so it’s kind of funny that Allura is making me do this for therapy.  _

_ So, talking about our lives, how are things, all of that. Allura told me that too.  _

_ Hey, to be fair, I don’t enjoy school either. It’s a necessity thing. And being on the honor roll isn’t for everybody, man. I’m sure your brother is proud of you no matter what. Even though my brothers are massive assholes, I know they would be of me. Maybe I’m saying this out of turn, since I don’t really know anything about your situation. But it sounds like he wants the best for you, man. GPA isn’t a measurement of being smart anyway.  _

_ And well, since you were so damn slow--even with the snail mail, man--it’s the weekend now. My week was alright. Honestly, I can’t tell you anything that will be particularly interesting to you. My sister’s boyfriend technically stole my car this week, so that’s something. He thinks he has rights to basically anything around our house, just because he’s connected to my sister. He took it without permission to take his kids to school, which is hilarious because this is the one time this whole month that he’ll actually take them to school and take responsibility for them, probably.  _

_ Funny, actually this week something came up so that I can no longer be around to pick up my niece and nephew after school anymore, and though he claimed he’s “always there” for his kids, Paolo can’t even pick them up and my mom is paying for them to join an after school program. It’s total bullshit. In all of this, my sister’s only shown her face once, and it was when she came home at like 2 AM, drunk off her ass, to sleep it off at the house.   _

_ Other than that, I’m just suffering through Calculus homework and deciding how many times per week two kids can have pizza rolls for dinner before it becomes unhealthy. I guess, since it’s Saturday, I’m thinking about going to this party tonight that one of the girls in my class is having. That all depends on if my sister comes home tonight and takes her kids home, because otherwise I’m on babysitting duty all night. How thrilling.  _

_ -L.M. _

_ P.S. I thought you were a girl because you have very nice handwriting… Uh, so, consider yourself lucky I guess. And no, I’m not a girl either. I’m a guy. Are you too? Or something else? I’d appreciate if  you'd tell me so I can be sure I get pronouns right and everything. :)  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello :) Fun fact: Mrs. Riley is the actual name of an English teacher I had who I still kind of resent for dress-coding me on a skirt I was wearing with leggings on underneath. When I went to the office, I took the skirt off so I was just in leggings and technically got off free because I was just wearing pants at that point. This was in the apparent "old days" when leggings and yoga pants weren't a dress code violation. Dress codes are the actual worst, man. But that's not why I'm here. 
> 
> This chapter is very short, I know. I’m not sure exactly where I want to go with this next, but I’m working on it. I’m not super proud of this update, but I really wanted to post something and this is what I had that felt like an okay-ish amount. I really have high hopes for this story but I’ve gotta try and figure out what I want from here on out. That being said, I’m open to suggestions. 
> 
> I’m also sorry for the exposition-heavy paragraphs. This chapter features a lot of narration meant to show each character’s introspection. I’m used to writing first person--that’s what I do in my original works--but I’m not fond of it used in fanfiction. It’s kind of awkward for me to do third person like this, so I’m sorry it’s off or boring. This stuff’s sometimes a lot to read and I do prefer to show rather than tell... But I want to lay some of these important character facts for background, so that the reader knows some of what each character is hiding from and/or sharing with the others in the future. And this is some important stuff tha2t I want readers to know, but the characters won’t necessarily show in their actions.  
> Also, please let me know if the letters are too hard to follow. Because they’re addressed, they aren’t always posted necessarily within either character’s POV, per se, but you can assume the addressee to is going to be reading it eventually.
> 
> And my author's notes are still way too fucking long :) 
> 
> I always appreciate bookmarks, kudos, and comments. More than you could know! :)


	4. Language, Pidge!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm alive. I am sorry about how slow I am with updates! I really do want to try and make this fic into something good!
> 
> Anyway! I hope you’re ready for best fucking bros Keith and Pidge because that’s what most of this chapter is. Their friendship will also be another huge focal point of this fic. As implied by the title, Pidge swears A LOT in this. 
> 
> Warnings: mentions of death and references to previous suicide attempt pretty blatantly in this one.
> 
> But then it gets silly and kinda fluffy.

K.K.

If there’s anything Keith knows for sure, it’s that he can recognize Shiro’s stupid smitten face any day. And he’s currently making that face, right now. As much as Keith wants to grimace because he’s so  _ dopey,  _ he’s glad to see the first non-anxious expression on Shiro’s face since his attempt three weeks--no, four, now--ago. A week has passed since he’d been released back into the world of real life and Keith’s barely noticed. He can’t decide if he’s glad for that or not. 

“So, Matt’s doing good, I take it,”  he says to Shiro, because he hopes he can let Shiro hold onto his lighthearted mood. 

Shiro just hums in reply, and that’s because he’s still looking down at his phone--texting Matt, undoubtedly--when Keith looks over at him. Keith rolls his eyes and focuses his attention back to where the television is playing… what was it again? 

Iron Chef? Chopped? What’s the difference? Everything on TV is trash, but it’s not like Keith has anything better to do. 

“Matt’s probably doing better than your homework is,” Shiro cuts in then, glancing between the mess of books and make-up work on the table and the TV screen. 

“I’ve done like half of it already,” Keith lies. 

Really, he’s stared at it for about two hours, scrawled out a few messy answers, and then it was like the words all started to swirl around in front of him and his head was buzzing. He had close his eyes to make it stop, and hasn’t been able to get back to it. 

_ Is that kind of what it’s like to have ADHD _ , he wonders, thinking absently of L.M.  _ Probably not. _

But even the thought of looking at his work again makes his head ache and kind of gives him the weird desire to kick something. “Are you going to hang out with him tonight?” Keith asks Shiro, and prays for a yes, because then he won’t be here to hover over his homework like an angry harpy. 

“I don’t know,” Shiro replies. “I… don’t think he’s got a lot of time right now,” 

“What are you talking about? Matt is one of the most perpetually bored people ever, second to  _ Pidge.”  _

Pidge. Speaking of Pidge, Keith hasn’t thought about them in a while, and he supposes he should feel guilty about that. When he came home from the hospital and finally got up the courage to turn his phone on again, it was flooded with texts from them, which he could only bring himself to half read because most of them were from  _ that night;  _ pleas for him to text them back or else and not to do “anything stupid.”

Then, while he was in the hospital he wasn’t allowed to have his phone, and he’d had it off for pretty much the entire day of. But, according to Shiro, he and Matt had talked them down and Keith didn’t bother to ask Shiro how many details he’d given Pidge. Either way, when he finally got it back and switched it on, he got those texts. But the texts stopped at the end of the following day. They didn’t bother sending any again while he was staying there. Keith almost feels upset, but obviously shouldn’t because Shiro and Matt had told them he wouldn't be getting them. 

But they also haven’t sent another text since. Keith’s been out of the hospital for almost two weeks and Pidge hasn’t texted him once. 

He guesses he should maybe suck it up and text them first, but he doesn’t know what to say. 

He realizes that Shiro isn’t going to try to defend his statement earlier because Keith is right. But Shiro isn’t going to hang out with Matt because he’s too damn worried to leave Keith alone. He knows this even though Shiro won’t say it because that’s how it’s been for the last two weeks. Shiro stuck so close to Keith you’d think Keith was the older brother and Shiro was a scared little boy. 

And now, Shiro has sunk down into the other end of the couch, stealing one of Keith’s blankets right from his lap. He’s still looking at his phone though. 

And then Keith’s phone vibrates from where it’s buried somewhere underneath him. 

_ Pidgeon: Hey asshole, just want you to know that you are personally responsible for ruining my weekend  _

Well, speak of the devil and he shall appear. Keith supposes that rule applies to Pidge more than anyone, who seems to have a telepathic ability to know when they’re being talked about.

_ Edgelord_Keef: what do you mean _

_ Pidgeon: I mean the sad puppy-eyed Matt that’s hanging off my shoulder. he won’t leave me alone because he’s all sad he can’t go see Shiro _

_ Pidgeon: Because shiro won’t leave his STUPID little brother alone because he’s STUPID and might do something FUCKING STUPID LIKE HURT HIMSELF IF HE’S LEFT TO HIS OWN STUPID DEVICES _

The words throw Keith’s heart straight up into his throat, and he stares down at his phone like a deer in headlights. Instinctively, he looks to Shiro, who’s now silently frowning at his own screen. 

_ Pidgeon: He and I are coming over. Now. So just be prepared you fucking dickwad. _

_ ~~~ _

Not ten minutes pass by and then “this was sticking out of your mailbox,” are the words Keith hears that make him jump, just before an envelope hits him square in the face and then Pidge’s entire body weight slams into his torso. Which isn’t a lot, to be fair, but all at once at full speed, the impact takes his breath away. 

Keith wriggles to catch them as Pidge tackles him into a hug there on the couch. They both topple over sideways, clutching at each other, awkward and desperate not to fall. 

Keith struggles like a fish out of water. This is not Pidge. Pidge is not  _ hugging. _ “Pidge,” he nearly gasps. “Are you… okay?”  

“What?” Pidge answers him like they’re offended he’d ask. “Am I  _ okay?”  _

“Well, yeah, I-”

And then in less than a second, Pidge reels back and throws a punch that connects directly to Keith’s left cheek. Keith’s senses explode in nothing but a flash of red, and then Pidge has slipped quickly away from him, landing on the floor with a resounding thump. Keith groans and holds his face in his hands, and Pidge is groaning too, holding their hand. 

“Fuck! Why does your face have to be made of stone?!” Pidge screeches. 

“What just happened?!” Shiro panics. 

Somewhere, Matt too calls, “What the hell, Pidge, did you just punch Keith?” 

Keith pries his head from the throw pillow to see Shiro crouched over him, and both Matt and Pidge on the floor, Pidge with their head down so far he can’t see their face, and Matt looking massively unsure. 

“Are you okay?” Shiro asks him. 

Keith shrugs, then shakes his head, shrugs again. He thinks he might have bitten the inside of his cheek with the impact, and his cheek  _ is  _ throbbing, but it’s not the worst he’s had. His mind is  _ reeling  _ though. 

“Katie, what the fuck was that?!” Matt babbles and Shiro gets up to race off somewhere. Keith wants to say something, but once again, he has no idea  _ what.  _

Matt fumbles around Pidge, who seems to be descending into a bout of hyperventilation, and Keith stares, feeling gobsmacked. Before he knows it, Shiro is pressing something gently to his swelling cheek; a bag of frozen peas. He proceeds to worry at Keith’s side as well, silent but floundering like a dying fish. 

Pidge starts kicking at Matt, “Get off me, Matt. Get off, get  _ off!”  _

They stand up suddenly, shaking Matt away and turning to look at Keith. It’s downright scary how quickly they’ve shifted from shaking to glaring and resolute. They lock eyes with Keith, face deadly serious and Keith drops the bag of peas into his lap. 

_ “That  _ was for trying to fucking  _ die  _ on me,” they declare. “You deserved it and  _ don’t _ try to tell me otherwise.” It’s unspoken, but that statement applies to both Matt and Shiro too. “Now that it’s done, we can go back to normal.” Pidge steps forward and jabs Keith in the center of his chest with a tiny manicured finger. “ _ Never  _ do that again, you absolute douche canoe. Put your fucking peas on your face now.” 

The cold bag is smushed back to Keith’s face and he clutches it awkwardly. Everyone lets out a collective exhale. 

A moment of tense silence passes by and Pidge snorts, “No really, I meant that. Can we go back to normal now, fucking  _ please.”  _

“Language, Pidge,” Shiro admonishes, and the air gets a little lighter.

“Make me Taka-shit Shirogane.” Pidge moves to settle on the couch beside Keith.

“You know I have tons of pictures from your toddler days on my laptop somewhere. I’ll show everyone you’re actually made of marshmallow.”

_ “Bite _ me! Keith, the hell are you watching? Chopped?” Pidge bumps his shoulder with her head. “Keith?” 

“Oh, uh,” Keith shrugs, trying to see over the lumpy bag of vegetables. “Yeah, probably.” Pidge doesn’t lift her head. 

Matt and Shiro have gotten up and slowly moved to take up residence on the other end of the couch. At the mention of Keith’s horrible taste in television shows, Matt takes up the remote. 

“I’m not sorry for punching you,” Pidge whispers, shifting just a little more uncharacteristically closer to him. 

“It’s okay,” Keith murmurs, fighting back some evil, crawling feeling. “I… I  _ am  _ sorry for… well. I’m sorry.” 

Pidge nods. Keith sees Shiro side-eying him but he turns away. Matt inevitably settles on playing The X-Files and the four of them sit back and actually manage to do something close to relax. 

~~~

“Did you know that half your school is at some huge party right now?” Pidge says over their shoulder from where they’re lounging on Keith’s bed--and wearing one of his sweaters that he didn't see them hijack--some time later.

“No?” Keith scoffs as he kicks the door shut, catching it last minute with his other foot, leaving it open just a crack, just how Shiro likes it. “Why would I care?” 

“I didn’t think you did. But figured maybe you’d heard. Looks like a drunken mess.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Snapchat,” Pidge replies. “I’m friends with a guy named Hunk who goes there. You know him?”

“No,” Keith deadpans, and reaches out to pass them a carton of takeout. “Dunno what that is but Matt said it’s for you.” 

“Ooh, sweet and sour chicken. Where’s yours?”

“Ate half of it when I was talking to Shiro and grabbing everything.” 

“Right.” Pidge doesn’t sound like they believe him, but they don’t have a rebuttal. “Here, look at these,” they instruct him, and slip their phone into his hands.

Keith taps listlessly through a collection of video clips posted by someone he’s sure Pidge has renamed to be “Hunk o' Burnin’ Love” in her Snap contacts. And well, they were right. He watches as gaggles of screaming and laughing teens take rounds of shots. He sees shots of cannonballs into the backyard pool, sloppy dancing, and at one point, Hunk turns the camera around and takes a shaky video of him and another boy with tan skin and  _ bright _ blue eyes--even in the shitty lighting--shotgunning cheap beers.

“Damn, and it’s only 10:30,” Keith just sighs, thinking about their hangovers. 

“Well apparently it’s the football captain’s party and 'not to be missed,'” Pidge laughs. “Lance’s words. Uh… the other guy in the shotgunning video.” 

Keith taps forward one more time when said video restarts. 

The video that pops up features the other boy, Lance, holding the camera suddenly, and he’s laughing as he records Hunk behind him over his shoulder, retching into the grass. Gross. 

“Poor guy can’t handle one beer. Buddy, you only _look_ like a heavyweight,” Lance says, and then bursts into giggles when Hunk shouts at him to stop recording. They proceed to have a full-blown chase to reclaim Hunk’s phone, after which the story ends. 

Keith has the fleeting thought,  _ Lance is kind of hot.  _ He throws Pidge’s phone back in their lap like it’s burned him.

“Yeah, that doesn’t look fun to me,” he tells them.  

“Yeah, you’re right. Takeout and UFO documentaries is our brand of fun,” Pidge agrees with a smile that only looks a little forced. They blasphemously stab at one of pieces of chicken with a single chopstick and wave it in front of Keith’s face. “Help me eat this.” 

He musters up every bit of courage and desperate desire to cling to this night of happiness and normalcy, and leans forward to take the bite. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this chapter is all Keith POV, that’s just how it worked out. But next chapter is planned to be all Lance POV. Sorry there is virtually no interaction between them here. This chapter was mostly an introduction to Pidge and the friendship between them and Keith, which is something I really, really love. 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry it's so short again RIP :P 
> 
> But I'm slowly getting there! Thanks for sticking with me if you're still here! It means so much to me!!


End file.
